


Makes for Good Lyrics

by ThisisVenereVeritas



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood, M/M, Making Out, Possibly Unrequited Love, Pre-Dethklok, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25771210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas
Summary: In the heat of the moment, Nathan makes an important decision.
Relationships: Nathan Explosion/Pickles the Drummer
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	Makes for Good Lyrics

_Blood’s cool. So is pain. And getting stabbed? Could totally work it into a song._

Felt like a hot knob, like someone got a napkin wad soaked in hot sauce and shoved it right into his shoulder blade. With only a slight twitch of the left eye, Nathan lowered into a hunch, nestling his stiffened jaw between his hands. Hurt liked a fucker, too. With some focus, Nathan likened it to coal on flesh, only the searing heat erupted inside the core of his muscles, a bitter flame that desperately wanted nothing more than to leave a scar. That same desperation poured forth in an ever-weakening flow of blood that continued to stain the back and sides of his worn top.

The room was eerily quiet, save for the occasional sound of Pickles kicking up cans or rolling bottles with the tip of his chucks. As Nathan hunched in his seat, the gash on his shoulder stretched open and oozing a mixture of fresh and coagulated blood, behind him Pickles turned on the stove and, lacking a better method, proceeded to thrust a sewing needle into the flame, spitting out the occasional swear whenever the flames got a bit too close for comfort. 

“Alrighty, that about does it,” he said once the tip changed from silver to a mild amber. “You ready?”

Nathan dragged his head into a slow nod.

Pickles walked over to the chair where Nathan rested and, whilst spinning the needle between his forefinger and thumb, waited as Nathan grabbed the base of his tank top and removed it, letting it fall to the floor.

As he dropped his shoulder, hot pain consumed his entire arm. Nathan eyed the crushed cans of beer and container of kung pao he’d consumed just thirty minutes prior. The memory of getting stabbed, of kicking out their rhythm guitarist was still fresh on the mind, but the adrenaline keeping Nathan numb had begun to subside. Something in his gut told him he’d probably need more than just half a few cold cans. 

He felt Pickles hover over his wound. “Yeesh, that looks gnarly.” 

“Yeah, well. Maybe it’ll leave a cool scar,” Nathan suggested as he contemplated another drink.

“You sure you don’t wanna try a hospital?”

Nathan scowled. “Fuck that,” he said. At this hour, a trip to the hospital meant waiting in a sterile room full of sickos who lacked any value in personal space. It meant _driving_ all the way to a hospital, just so he could sober up and waste several hours in a damn white room that smelled like stale old people. And sickos. Coughing with their mouths open. It meant talking to a doctor. It meant signing a bunch of forms Nathan could barely understand, and after standing up to Magnus and kicking him out, the last he wanted was to end his night trying to drunkenly spell out the events to some lame-ass in a white coat.

Worst of all, it meant money.

Just the thought made Nathan grimace and tack on, “you said you could do this.”

“I did.”

Nathan wasn’t sure how he could get the point across any better. With a half-growl, half-sigh, he finally added, “And we just spent our first paycheck on booze and furniture, so…” 

“Good point,” Pickles said. He rested an arm on top of the chair’s frame, then extended it, letting Nathan catch it in his peripheral. “Hand me a bottle.”

Nathan eyed the cluttered table and quickly sorted through the hodgepodge of half-empty plastic bottles. “Uhh…here’s some– _ugh_ –Bacardi.”

“That’ll do fine,” Pickles said as Nathan offered him the bottle with his good arm. “One second: gotta get the string through the needle. Actually, go ahead and open the top for me.”

“Still can’t believe you know how to sew.”

“Had to learn when Snakes N’ Barrels was getting started,” Pickles said as he unraveled some black thread. Again, he leaned forward, dipping the string into the bottle Nathan held until the tip of the thread sank into the cheap vodka. “Couldn’t really afford to buy new outfits, so I just sewed second hand crap together.” Ignoring the pain, Nathan turned and watched as Pickles pulled the string out from the bottle and, with surprisingly quick precision, plunged the thread through the eye of the needle. “Pretty much every headband I owned was picked out of the garbage and sewn together.”

"Huh…Could’ve fooled me.”

“What do you mean?”

“What?” Nathan stopped to think for a moment. "Well, jus’…you looked great,” he said, not realizing the implications of his remark until it was said. Once it was, he turned his around, facing the table, and corrected himself by saying, “ _I mean_ , you looked the part.”

Pickles supplied no comeback, which was easily for the best. Between the growing anticipation, pain and _that_ comment, Nathan was willing to accept a few minutes of silence. Still, when Pickles prodded his good shoulder for the bottle of white rum, Nathan couldn’t help but brace and raise both shoulders up, and cringed as he relived the fresh reminder of his words when he handed the bottle to Pickles.

“ _You looked good” …what the hell, man?_

Pickles raised the bottle to his mouth, downing some of it before redirecting the bottle above the wound, and carefully tilting the nozzle till its contents threatened to pour over. “Here we go,” he warned somewhat sluggishly before lowering his thumb and letting the rum pour over the open gash.

Nathen sucked air through his widening nostrils as the sting of alcohol splashed and soaked his wound, washing away dried and clumping blood, but soaking every torn muscle fiber with an unforgiving, scorching heat. Suddenly, being stabbed wasn’t the worst feeling anymore. He blinked just once, just to stop himself from uttering anything that could possibly be compared to a complaint or cry, and swallowed it all as he felt the remaining alcohol pour forth and spill down his chest and back. Adrenaline reawakened and raced across his veins, just barely numbing some of the raging flame that continued to lick and burn him.

As Nathan fought to maintain his form, Pickles watched as blood thinned with alcohol began to pool on the floor.

“Damn, that’s a lot of blood,” he commented. “Probably good Skwisgaar and Murderface left.”

It _was_ a lot of blood. It only dawned on Nathan how much as he raised his head just enough to catch the formation of his red, murky reflection staring back at him. His nostrils flared again, and he caught a whiff of the pungent odor collecting beneath him: his blood, Bacardi, and whatever crap the five of them had been dragging in the last several months. Fuck, when was the last time someone cleaned the floor? Through a spinning head, Nathan managed to recall the one time Skwiss brought in that forty-something, motherly-looking broad, and how she took the time to do the dishes and mop the floor. Fuck, they didn’t even have a mop till she went and got them one, and never bothered using it sense! All those times they brought girls home, and not once did they ever suggest one of them clean the damn floors.

Damn, it smelled like alcohol and shit. His blood smelled like shit. 

“Hand me a bottle,” Nathan growled as he leered heavily over his nauseating image. 

“Of what? This Bacardi?”

“No, fuck that,” Nathan growled, turning his eyes on the table. “The hell did Hammersmith leave behind?”

“Hm?” Pickles surveyed the table before swapping the rum for another bottle. “Looks like this Jameson–”

“Hand it over.”

He grabbed the bottle greedily from Pickles, yanked the top and purposely threw it in the direction of the garbage. Without bothering to take a breath, he downed half the contents, ignoring the mild burn it left in his throat in favor of its near-immediate effects. He dropped the bottle, letting it rest half-hazard on his lap before dragging out another slow nod, this one far more slanted the one before.

“Do it,” Nathan slurred.

Pickles wasted no moment, and with drunken precision, plunged the needle and thread into the gash. Nathan hissed out a curse before biting his lips shut, doing everything in his power to remain stoic as his companion’s second hand worked its way towards the wound. Despite being a relatively clean cut, it had swollen to nearly double its size, and required some additional help to align. With two fingers, Pickles pressed the top ends of the wound together, wincing as some fresh blood found its way dripping down his fingers. He pulled at the thread, watching it slide through the gash, the pressure forcing the gap to finally meet and come to a near-perfect close as Pickles worked to finish the first stitch.

Nathan continued to remain as still as he could in his seat, but the sensation of sewing thread wriggling through his already exasperated nerves did no favors. By the time Pickles was done with the first, Nathan was ready for his next hit.

“One second,” he said, though it was starting to sound more like a groan.

Pickles chuckled. “Sure, dude. Just don’t forget to share.” He wiggled several bloodied fingers in front of Nathan. “You ain’t the only one getting grossed out.”

Nathan handed Pickles the bottle. He stared hard at the table, at the pyramid of empty beer cans and crushed cigarettes, listening as Pickles took his share before handing the bottle back to him. With much awaited anticipation, Nathan shut his eyes. The second stitch was just as bad, if not worse than the second. A new rush of adrenaline coursed through him, making his stomach turn. Through rapid successions of heavy breathing, Nathan pulled through without hardly a sound. The third stitch burned worse than cigarettes on a tongue, but the Irish whiskey was just starting to make its way up his spine, and by the time Pickles started the fourth, Nathan was feeling pretty good. 

“I’m almost done,” Pickles slurred above him.

‘Almost’ meant at least another shot or two was in order. Though he barely had a grasp around the neck, he hoisted the bottle up and downed the remaining Jameson, then let the bottle drop and hit the reddened pool beneath him.

“Good,” Nathan grumbled through a lazy smile. “Like…like sewing a pair of jeans.”

“ _Well_ , turns out skin’s a bit weirder, but close,” Pickles admitted with a slightly nervous laugh. “At least you’ll have a cool scar when it’s over, man.”

“Exactly,” Nathan responded. “I’ll have a gnarly scar–”

“And we can _totally_ write about this later,” Pickles added.

“Fuck yeah, we can,” Nathan replied, leaning forward as he lost some balance. It took Pickles grabbing his good shoulder and pulling him back to the comforting frame for Nathan to regain some composure. “We’re gonna write some damn good music without him.” 

“Hell yeah.”

“Fuckin’…fuckin’ rewrite the songs he had a hand with.”

“Uh, sure.”

“Don’t need that pre-perten–pre-ten-shoos…” Nathan stuttered. He blinked several times, and he saw strands of his hair falling and sticking to his sweat-ridden forehead, obstructing his already blurred vision. With a shaky hand, he wiped it all away. “Don’t need that fucking asshole!”

His hand slammed against the table, causing the pyramid to fall, and bottles to turn, roll and fall to the ground. His heart raced, high on the feeling, and raced faster with each white pierce of the needle, until he was completely numb. 

“Yeah, but we do need another guitarist,” Pickles said rather somberly which, of course, came dangerously close to being sober. It was a voice of concern Nathan wasn’t prepared for, not from Pickles. As he worked the final stitch, Nathan withdrew deeper into his mind, sorting through those impossibly real words. He continued to stare off, brain drowning in a sea of booze and adrenaline, when it only hit him they had just signed a contract, were a band member short, and had already splurged away most of their first check. 

They just signed a record label deal. Their manager was one hell of a guy, but in the end, they were still a new band. Nathan wasn’t going to pretend he understood the whole process, but he knew one-screw up was all it took to kill a deal. One screw-up, and all the time and money they spent would be flushed down the proverbial toilet.

All that time and money… Nathan wasn’t sure he had enough of either to make up for Magnus’ outburst and him kicking the bastard out of the band at the eleventh hour.

Money. They’d need to hire a new guitarist. One who didn’t mind _not_ receiving a full check. Who the fuck was that desperate or stupid? _Shit_. Was it possible to refund the furniture? Nathan glanced at a nearby couch, expression becoming more perturbed as he settled on the very noticeable indent left behind by Murderface, grease stains from Chinese, Pizza and Mexican take-out. And that was just the stains Nathan felt comfortable acknowledging. He didn’t even want to think about the other stains that littered the sofa, the couch, rug, kitchen table he was currently residing by…

“Shit,” he grumbled.

“Whoops, sorry,” Pickles slurred out in a joking manner. He thought he had pulled the stitch too tight, and backed off from Nathan. “But hey! S’ done.”

“Huh?” Nathan came to, and was immediately reacquainted with the sharp, very bitter and stabby sensation from before, only now it was coupled with the reinforced, but equally painful sensation of the stitches holding his wound together. As stress continued to pile and forcibly sober Nathen enough to understand the extent of their current situation, Pickles attempted to work the final stitch, tying the string together the final knot before using his nails to pinch and cut the thread from the needle. After so many successful attempts, the final stitch refused to give under his pressure. Pickles huffed and, without putting any thought to it, brought his mouth to the wound and bit the string with his teeth. Nathan’s eyes went wide as he felt Pickles’ lips brush over the hot, swollen skin, causing some mild discomfort, but also coating the area with a strangely welcoming warmth, one that left Nathan wanting nothing more than to leave.

But rather than remark on how gay it was that Pickles did that, Nathan instead found himself reflecting on time, and how much he and Pickles spent sorting through so many guitarist and bassists, and so much time making posters and getting their name out, and doing last-minute gigs and getting paid just before the rent was due.

Nathan watched as his drummer stumbled over discarded cans, reaching the kitchen and dropping thread and needle on top of the counter. His dreadlocks, wiry and thin, fell over his shoulders as he slumped over a half-consumed box of chow mein and orange chicken. Ignoring the heat thrashing in his shoulder, Nathan stared hard and wondered how much time Pickles had left in him. After all, Pickles had the most experience. Pickles was in a band, a real band with a label and everything. When did he say he got famous again? In his twenties…no. It was sixteen? Seventeen? Doesn’t matter, the point was the dude was almost thirty, which technically meant he was getting old. He was getting old and invested too much time for this to fuck up now. And now Nathan had to account for all the time Pickles put in, starting from the moment Nathan approached him, stretching a few years to this very moment. All those times Pickles played the lead and sweetened otherwise difficult conversations between bar and club owners. Pickles always seemed to know which places to go to attract the bigger crowds, and he had a way with complex, fancy words to get them on stage, to get the booze, drugs and girls. Lastly, all the times Pickles helped him and Skwisgaar with the music, the lyrics and the riffs. All those fucking hours. Ah, shit, what about Skwiss and Murder–what about Skwisgaar? A couple of years didn’t seem like much in the grand scheme of things, but for them, it felt like a lifetime, all of which built up to this moment.

And now they needed a new guitarist to help finish an album set to debut in a few months.

Nathan opened his eyes. He hadn’t noticed that he closed them in the first place, and for how long either, but the building dread and guilt hanging in his gut mixed with the whiskey pushed what little rational Nathan had in him out of the door. He saw Pickles resting on the couch, lidded eyes barely open. The box of chow mein rested on top of his stomach. By the looks of it, the chicken was in his stomach. Nathan saw Pickles, drunk and barely conscious, and just knew he had to say something.

He left his seat and found that moving his shoulder resulted in a tight, discomforting sensation. Painful, but not like the knob. Still very warm though, and still quite the bitter parting gift. Nathan hated to think it could very well be the beginning of a long string of bitter reminders, and once he hovered just above Pickles, he uttered a simple “Hey.”

Pickles’ eyes slowly opened. “Dude,” he said with a lazy grin, then waved a hand at him. “Hey, you think you can… hey man, you ok?”

“Did I fuck up?”

“What?” 

“Just now,” Nathan said, feeling and fighting against his lips to form a concerned frown. “When I kicked Magnus out.”

“What?” Pickles grabbed the take-out box and placed it on the arm of the couch before picking himself up into a sitting position. “Wait, you think you fucked up getting rid of that asshole?”

With nothing else to admit, Nathan merely shrugged. 

“You just said we were better off without him.”

This time Nathan had trouble succumbing to a groan. “We have an album that needs to get done,” he said. “And we only have one guitarist.”

Pickles rubbed his eyes. “Ok, _ok_ ,” he said, then sank somewhat into his seat. “I get it…give me a second.” 

Lacking any grace, Pickles stood up, hobbling over himself and spreading his arms out to maintain balance. After a few seconds, he continued to stumble about the room, dreads flopping about, until he finally reached a pile of old worn posters. He grabbed several, then made his way back to the couch, stopping only to grab a sharpie that was left on the floor.

He flopped back on the couch, only to immediately grab his head. “Seriously, I’m wayyyy too drunk for this,” he groaned. “Ok, Nathan, sit next to me.”

“Uhhh–”

Pickles narrowed his eyes. “Dude, just sit down.”

Nathan did, and without any complaint. He fell into his seat, arms crossed, and his eyes dead set on the filthy wall.

“Ok,” Pickles said as he uncorked the marker. “So, first off, we all agreed to ditch the douche.”

“Yeah, but I–”

“–Did the right thing by calling him out in the first place,” Pickles interrupted as he began to work his magic on the poster. It was an older poster, for a concert that took place a few weeks back, just before Dethklok was signed. A simple black and white poster with all the members horribly imposed on the image, along with their band name and the date of their gig. After a quick sniff from the marker’s tip, Pickles began to fill over Magnus with black ink, until he was nothing more than a bold silhouette. “You givin’ him the black eye was a long time coming, dude. But it happened, and let me tell you, the guys respect you more for it.”

Nathan snorted through his nose. “Whatever,” he said, letting some of his hair fall over his face to hide the small burst pride as he reimagined that wonderful blow he gave Magnus several hours prior. “Guy was a dick, but we–”

“Will get another guitarist within the week,” Pickles said plainly. He took the second poster, flipped it around and began scribbling on it. After a few seconds, he tore at the poster, then placed the torn pieces on top of the other, the one with the silhouette. “Using this brand-new poster! Look!”

Lying on the table Nathan saw the hastily put together poster. Where the date of the gig was once written was now covered with “guitarist wanted,” and the location and time was covered with the new date of the upcoming auditions.

“We got about a dozen more of these,” Pickles said as Nathan narrowed on the poster, “We can recycle them…then use some change to make a few more…twenty should do it. That’s, what? Less than a dollar spent?” 

“Huh, well.” Nathan furrowed his brows. “What about our contract?”

Pickles erupted into a nasty, drunken guffaw, “Nathan, Magnus was a rhythm guitarist! You think the guys on top give a shit about who we have for a rhythm guitarist?”

“Uhhh.”

Pickles placed a hand on Nathan’s good shoulder. “They don’t, dude. They barely give a shit about us.” He snickered again. “Even if they did, I’m pretty sure that Charles guy can think something up. Good managers usually do.” 

“He is pretty cool, for a manager,” Nathan admitted. “But, what about our check?”

“What about it?”

“We spent it. All of it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Pickles said, turning his head upright in a moment of clarity. Nathan half-expected Pickles to emit the same feeling that was bubbling in his gut, but instead earned yet another blasé shrug from the drummer. “Eh, I got extra funds…enough to keep someone desperate enough to work the first album with us.” Pickles snorted mucus up one nostril, then added, “Maybe do a gig in between and let ‘em take a few extra bills… _meh_ , most guitarists are pretty desperate for exposure anyways.”

Nathan’s jaw dropped a little. “Pickles.”

Despite his drunkenness, Pickles picked up on it, and said, “What?”

Nathan internally cringed. He hadn’t meant to say Pickles’ name aloud, and now that it was out there…

 _What the fuck do you tell him?_ Nathan clenched his jaw as he fought a way to express how grateful he was that Pickles already had a plan, but without sounding like some sissy. Shit, what could he say? How cool Pickles was for being so calm? How awesome it was that he was, because it made sort of calm at the same time? _No,_ that was stupid. So stupid, but Nathan was envious that Pickles was happily drunk and complacent with everything that lay ahead. He wished he had whatever it was that made Pickles so calm and collected, so… 

_Right_ , Nathan thought. He was in a band before. That’s why he was so calm. He probably dealt with this shit before.

“You’ve done this shit before,” Nathan said, finally.

“Sure have,” Pickles replied, pointing a finger back at him. Head swaying, he continued: “Let me tell you…what you did with Magnus was handled a lot better than some of the shit I did. Shoot, I’m surprised I lasted as frontman as long as I did.”

Nathan loved a verbal pat on the back, but stopped himself from relishing in the compliment. Feeling the hot tingle edge deeper into his shoulder, he said, “You shouldn’t need to spend your money…”

“I know. But I’ll do it.”

Nathan hunched over, raising his shoulders and bringing his large, clenched hands to his knees. He glared at Pickles. “You’re not the one who punched him.”

Pickles snickered, then purposely inched his face forward, challenging Nathan’s scowl with a sly smirk. “I _want_ to pay.”

Keeping his grim expression, Nathan asked, “Why?”

Still harboring his smirk, Pickles leaned back. He grabbed a half-used cigarette resting on the tray, along with a nearby lighter, and said, “remember when I told you the guys respect you for hitting him?” 

“Yeah?”

Pickles relit the cigarette and brought it to his lips. He took a quick drag. “Well, and this is gonna sound girly, but I respect you. For standing up to me. For not making me be the one to have to stand up and shove my sticks up his ass.” Pickles slouched in his seat and took another drag before offering the cigarette to Nathan, who refused. “Whatever,” Pickles said. He sniffed again, and Nathan only noticed how red-faced the man had become. It wasn’t the usual shade of drunk Nathan was used to; rather, the sudden rush of blood to the face that suggested shame or embarrassment. The look on Pickle’s face, however, suggested quite the opposite.

Pickles was smiling.

“But, you know,” Pickles said, eyes drifting to the side as he slurred his words out, “when I said I was surprised I lasted as long as I did as frontman…well, to be honest, I don’t know if I could’ve done it. Stand up.” His smile dwindled as he stared outwards, but a return to his cigarette helped ease him to confess his fears. “Knowing me, I’d have done nothing. I’d think about it, but I’d never do it… I’d just let him have his way to keep the peace between us.”

He finished off the cigarette, then rubbed the remaining nub back into the tray. “You’re a better man because you give enough of a crap to do what’s right. Sure, I got the experience, but you… You got _balls_. Bigger balls than I ever had.” Pickles stared at the filthy table, at the poster, then fell back into his seat, looking soberer than before. “Sure, I sewed outfits, and I can recycle posters…but making important decisions, like keeping the band together?” Pickles raised both his arms up an exaggerated shrug. “Wouldn’t be here if I did more of those. But maybe it’s for the best though, because I’m finally in a band with someone who does, y’know?”

Pickles was still grinning, still so red in the cheeks that Nathan could start to make out the freckles that were scattered across his face and forehead. His eyes were bloodshot and watery, but his pupils remained pleasantly lax, two green pools surrounded by blazing lava, encased on a hot, red event horizon that compelled Nathan to keep on listening, to come closer and fall prey to its tethers and get lost in those comforting words.

Maybe it was the booze, or because he was so damn exhausted after getting all those stitches, but Nathan wanted nothing more than to tell Pickles how fucking grateful he was. But sharing meant opening up, and even though Pickles had alluded to past mistakes, the searing heat that once occupied his shoulder was now overwhelmed with a new heat burning in his stomach and chest, and Nathan was afraid– _You? Afraid?_ –of saying something that might ruin everything. 

Nate stood up and stomped over to the kitchen table. 

“Uh, Nate?” 

_Booze_ , he thought. _You just need more booze. You’re overthinking it._ Nathan surveyed the kitchen table, grabbed a bottle of whiskey. Didn’t matter who it belonged to. He tore through the cap as he hurried back to Pickles, who had since returned to consume what remained of the Chinese leftovers.

He fell into the seat, his crashing weight practically sending Pickles off from his. Nathan shoved the bottle into Pickles’ chest. “One last round, before we black out.” 

Never one to shy from a binge, Pickles took the bottle into his arms, looked cheekily at Nathan, and broke into a fit of giggle. “For reals?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Nathan said, avoiding his gaze as he watched Pickles’ lips purse around the opening. Dark liquid railed down the edge of his lips, past his chin where it soon intermixed with the dim lighting of the room and the glistening flesh that was Pickle’s neck. Nathan lowered his gaze even further, until he was left staring at his own feet. It wasn’t until Pickles shoved him did he work his way to face the older man.

Pickles was wasted. As impossible as it was, somehow his dreads ended up everywhere they shouldn’t, and the stupid toothy grin he had before was even toothier. “Hey,” Pickles said. He practically fell over Nathan as he tried handing the bottle over. “Cheer, Nate. To Dethklok,” Pickles said before weakly slapping his hand on Nathan’s lower back.

“And us doing everything it takes to get us to the top,” Nathan added, feeling some confidence return when he saw Pickles toss him a lopsided thumbs-up.

“Hell-fucking-yeah!”

 _We’re gonna reach the top_ , Nathan thought as he brought the bottle to his lips. He gulped down more than his fair share, letting the sting in the back of his throat consume all his thoughts until he was sure nothing was left. He slammed the bottle on the table, grinning maniacally as Pickles erupted into another fit of giggles as whiskey shot up from the bottle and spilled down his hand.

“Fuck yeah, Nate!” Pickles cheered through slurred words.

Hearing his name made Nathan turn and face Pickles. With his brain now drowning in alcohol, Nathan could barely make out the shape of Pickles as he leaned forward, lifting Nathan’s face up with his own shaky hands. He saw Pickles lips move, and he was certain he heard words coming from his mouth, but couldn’t determine what they were. What little sobriety remained was transfixed on the green blurs that fluttered before him, the soft tingle of fingertips against his face. Like precious anchors in a crashing sea of torment. An oasis in a hot, simmering hellfire from which Nathan so desperately wanted to flee from. Head spinning, Nathan reached out and grabbed Pickles’ arms, using them to keep him afloat as his vision turned dark. 

“You ok, duuuude?” The words vibrated against Nathan’s skull. He looked up, barely spotting those green flickers through the darkening fog, barely hearing the words that followed.

Using his strength, he pulled himself up, hands grabbing higher and higher up Pickles arm, and he chased after those fading green light, bringing himself closer and closer, until he could smell hot whiskey breath hitting his face.

“Nate?” 

He felt his name hit his lips, hot and airy. Trapped in the horizon, Nathan stared at the darkening void, at its brutal emerald center, and he welcomed it. He held on tight to his lanky anchor as he embraced the horrid unknown, bringing his lips to Pickles in a sloppy, lip crushing kiss.

Pickles tensed underneath him, retracting as fast as he could under the control of Nathan’s grip. For a moment, some thought pierced through the empty cavernous mind that was currently Nathan Explosion, pleading with him to cease, only to be destroyed when he felt Pickles push back. Those savory chapped lips that tasted of every drink Nathan’s ever had the pleasure to enjoy pursed against his, parting just enough for him to feel their wet entirety, for them to slip over his in an uneven, but pleasurable harmony. Finger’s rolled down the sides of his face. A hand brushed against Nathan’s thick neck before disappearing into the vast unknown, only for the other to reappear just under his arm, those long and calloused fingers compelling him to go further.

They broke their kiss just long enough to grab at some fresh air before Nathan took Pickles by the neck of his tank top and pushed him down into the sofa. Said man flopped into the couch, arms already folded behind his head as he stared woozily up at Nathan, lips still parted in a crooked, albeit surprised grin.

“You’re drunk, Nate,” Pickles commented. 

Nathan ignored it, choosing instead to analyze the scene beneath him. His own shadow consumed Pickles’ entirety. Pickles was far from feminine, but he was small enough to provide Nathan with some sense of power over him, enough that Nathan convinced himself this could work. _Yeah, this could work._

He lowered himself on top of Pickles, trapping his observant drummer under the weight of his own body. His long hair cascaded over his shoulders, causing his left shoulder to tingle as it fell and created a curtain that surrounded both him and Pickles. 

“You,” Pickles said, eyes barely focused at Nathan, “got a weird way of celebrating.” 

Nathan stopped Pickles from going any further. He pushed his lips into Pickles, muffling whatever noises he could. This time he went for the bottom lip, catching it between his teeth and holding it down briefly by the incisors. Enough to earn a mild moan. Good noise. Celebratory sounds that set his chest ablaze. Nathan’s good arm slid under his drummer, gripping the tanktop by the bottom, balling it in his grip and eager to remove it and feel flesh against flesh. Heat intermixing. Eruption.

It took very little coaxing to get Pickles to arch his back enough to make ripping off his top easier. In a daze, Nathan flung it aside, letting it fall on top of a resting guitar in the corner. He dipped down, bringing his lips to Pickle’s neck. He felt the bob of Pickles’ Adam's apple between his lips, the rising chest and racing heart that beat under his command. Nathan kissed the flesh, tasting remains of dried whiskey and sweat, and trailed after it till he reached the crook of Pickle’s neck and shoulder.

 _“I don’t know if I could’ve done it. Stand up.”_

The words lingered in Nathan’s mind as he held Pickles down and bit into his neck, earning another sweet inviting moan from his drummer. That wondrous noise echoed in Nathan’s mind, sending that fire in his stomach further south, into his groin. Nathan’s legs slipped off the couch as he continued downward, his hands molesting Pickles and finding no tits, no soft curves or round, cradling hips. It hardly mattered. As drunk as he was, Nathan found little issue biting down on a small pink nipple, quickly finding it to be as sensitive as a woman’s. Pickles jolted, stopped only by Nathan’s crushing force, along with the tantalizing sensation of his tongue encircling that bud, those greedy teeth clenching it just at the right moment. His hands fell on top of Nathan’s head, shaking and sliding on top of his crown as Nathan continued to suck and threaten him with the possibility of breaking skin.

“Fuck,” he heard Pickles complain. “Oooh…oh _fuck_.”

That low moan set off something primal within Nathan. He stopped what he was doing and brought himself upright. Pickles hands slipped off him, but not before gently clinging to part of his arm. Each second of brand new contact teased and taunted Nathan, beguiling that bestial desire that continued to pool within his lower abdomen.

Now on his knees, Nathan loomed over Pickles, watching as his friend wiped his eyes, face completely red from intoxication and arousal. His left nipple was a rosy, wet mess speckled with bright flecks of future bruising. The scenery barely satisfied Nathan as he cast his sights downwards, at the second hand that covered Pickles’ developing erection. Upon seeing it, Nathan’s eyes darted upward, passed that upheaving chest, wet neck and back at that humored, but shame-ridden face. 

_“I’d just let him have his way to keep the peace between us.”_

Pickles said that, didn't he? And now he had Pickles beneath him. He rested a hand on Pickles’ thigh, watching it raise a little as he purposely let it slide upwards, stopping just short of the man’s inner thigh before transitioning into a massage. Pickles sighed, seemingly calming down, or perhaps even forgetting, what just happened between him and Nathan, though it didn't stop Nathan from watching the man react to his touch. When he gripped the inner thigh, clenched the lean muscle in his power grip, Pickles pulled his lips inward, dropping his other hand down to the opening of his pants. Nathan caught a glimpse of the man’s tightly shut eyes, the burning red that consumed his face, and in his mind, those words replayed: 

_“You’re a better man because you give enough of a crap to do what’s right.”_

_A better man._ Nathan heard the words echo and fade into obscurity. 

He wanted Pickles, wanted nothing more than to torment him longer before ultimately taking his entire fill. But a greater part of him needed Pickles in the band. He needed Pickles in working order, keeping him on the right track and helping him record and locate their new guitarist. If Nathan didn’t stop now, then everything really would be compromised. He needed Pickles working alongside him not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

Nathan brought a hand to his mouth to withhold the sudden nausea forming in the back of his throat. He saw the world enclose around him, spinning and going dark. Nathan sucked in fresh air and used what strength he had to pull himself off from Pickles, falling back on his side of the couch before ultimately sliding off that and onto the floor. 

He remained on the floor for some time. Nathan locked on a ball of dust as the dim lights above flickered. He heard Pickles above groan something. A part of him wanted to throw up, another to repeatedly smack his head against the floor, but the better part of him realized he needed to check on Pickles.

He crawled his way up the couch’s arm, swallowing thick wads of saliva, until he finally reached a standing position. Pickles lay on the couch, breathing slowly and appearing far more relaxed. His hand still covered his groin, but the tent from before had diminished in size. His mouth remained partly open, calmly sucking in short breaths of air. His eyes were closed. Nathan waved a hand over him. Dude was out. Whether he simply clocked out due to exhaustion, or blacked out because he was drunk as hell, was up in the air. Nathan wanted nothing more than to believe Pickles was too black-out drunk to recall any of what occurred between then. Even if he wasn’t, chances were he’d keep his mouth shut…to keep the peace. Nathan grimaced at the thought as he knelt over and lightly slapped Pickles on the face. 

“Hey,” he muttered, then slapped Pickles a bit harder, just enough to stir him awake. Pickles jerked, twisting in the couch before swatting Nathan away. Nathan waited for an arm to come his way before grabbing it, using the relaxed appendage to help hoist his friend up. “Come on,” Nathan said, offering his second hand to Pickles.

Pickles groaned. He rubbed his eyes before allowing Nathan to pick him up. Lost in a stupor, Pickles leaned on top of Nathan as he was led into the shadowy unknown.

“Where we goin?” Pickles grumbled.

“To bed.”

“I’ll sleep here…”

“Don’t want you barfing near the equipment.”

“Fine.”

Nathan readjusted his grip on Pickles, gripping him by the belt of his jeans, while Pickles wrapped an arm over him to keep himself afloat. The two stumbled over wires, bottles, passed Nathan’s bedroom, finally reaching Pickles’. Nathan dragged Pickled to the bed, releasing his grip and letting the smaller man collapse on to the worn mattress. He watched Pickles roll on his back, chuckling tiredly before going silent again. Sighing, Nathan dragged Pickles up to meet his pillow, then moved some blankets to keep Pickles asleep on his side.

“Thanks, buddy,” Pickles said through closed eyes.

“Uh, no problem.” Nathan wasn’t sure if he was supposed to feel good about having done the right thing, or not, but hearing the words convinced him that he wasn’t a complete jackass about the whole thing. He glanced down at Pickles, watching as he tried to open his eyes to meet his massive, blurry savior, but quit in favor of waving a hand at Nathan.

“Hey,” he said into the pillow, but said it loud enough for Nathan to hear. 

“Yeah?” Nathan inquired.

Pickles yawned, then smiled triumphantly as he snuggled his pillow. “Don’ forget what I said, ok?”

The question pierced him. Nathan reached for his shoulder, feeling the stitched-up wound throb against his muscles and deep into his bones. He held through the pain, focused on Pickles’ remark and his lazy smile, and managed to find some peace from it.

“Yeah,” Nathan replied, feeling relief wash over him as he realized he’d be keeping his drummer.

“We’re gonna be okaayyy,” Pickles said through a yawn. He nestled into his bed as Nathan backed out of the room.

Nathan stopped at the door. “Hey, Pickles.”

“Hmm?”

Nathan grit his teeth as he contemplated the legitimacy of Pickles’ current intoxication levels. Was it enough for him to forget? Would he remember parts of this come morning? Did it fucking matter? He already dipped his toes into dangerous territory. He almost dove into a deep pit from which he and Pickles’ might not have escaped from.

This was nothing.

“You looked good in those outfits,” Nathan said, forcing each word out as hard as he could to make up for it. He paused, letting his mouth drop as he added, more plainly, “Still look good.”

Pickles snorted into his pillow. “Nathan, you’re so drunk…” he said as Nathan closed the door. 

Pain. Pain all over his shoulder and back from a traitorous stab wound. Bitter pain rolling up his back, but it was nothing compared to the lightning that throbbed in his chest, the cacophonous grind that tore at his mind as he relived the fleeting memory of his lips pressed roughly against Pickles. It stabbed every nerve, twisting before pulling and repeating its gruesome pattern. Little knives stretched across his entire being, punishing him for hesitating, for choosing the band over his own selfish desire. It racked up his spinal cord and infiltrated his mind, attempting to crush what satisfaction Nathan gained for simply telling Pickles the truth, but failing as he embraced it all, facing the dark of the living room with a malicious stare. 

_Good._ Very good, he could use this.


End file.
